There is a moment when Alan Rickman confidently strides across the screen as Colonel Brandon, glimpses Marianne for the first time and is completely lost to her. Highlighted in that one-minute scene is an expression of a man besotted – and even to this day, this is just one of my favorite moments in cinema. Very few “leading men” leave such a lasting impression. The kind of impression that reminds us that yes they are fictional, but literary men are based on real people and this is what inspires today’s write up about the Count of Monte Cristo. Edmond Dantes the literary hero
Most often a hero is memorable enough for the length of a story, but how many really stick with us? How many romantic-comedies emulate the type of man we would want to find in a mate? How many “jump” off the pages of a novel and become “real”?
Hollywood’s blueprint of men and romance (really anything) is skewed. But since media, in any variety, seems to be “the” way of communication, most of us consume it. As a result, we may tend to have stars in our eyes over some of these cinematic heroes. But most often the male (and female) lead has something about him that is in need of “editing.” Maybe for some he is too cocky; too brooding; too perfect…! For some of us, this then means we travel to meet literary men.
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Although she never married, Jane Austen created a handful of swoon-worthy men for generations of women. She brought us Mr. Darcy, Mr. Knightly, and even a scoundrel or two. Margaret Mitchell created an icon in the Southern “gentleman” Rhett Butler. Charles Dickens wrote dozens of fervent leading men and really, who could forget the foppish Sir. Percy?
Then, there is the forgotten Alexander Dumas’ character, Edmond Dantes. Among these many more recognizable literary men, Dantes seems to be more of a discarded hero. But once you meet him, he’s memorable. His story starts as that of an ambitious young man who, while not wealthy is find with his station. He has the love of a beautiful woman and is a loyal friend to a man with rank. Following their ship’s return to land, Edmond is made captain of the ship causing jealousy to take root in Mondego. Through a series of events, Edmond is wrongly accused of a crime, unceremoniously carted off to the Chateau d’If prison and held in captivity for fifteen years. Eventually Edmond’s anger changes to exacting revenge.
That is the story basics. But this then asks, is Edmond an anti-hero?
At first glance, Edmond may not be the ideal man either. But the distinction here is, this isn’t because he’s a jerk. Rather that he is wronged by those he has explicit trust in. Though I mostly just know this character from Jim Caviezel’s Dantes, he does a good job with the role. What many aficionados of the novel might recognize is the blatant conclusion difference; book vs. script. In the former, Edmond takes a different approach in demanding satisfaction. In the latter, he shows some form of “mercy” at the prompting of a revelation. Of course, his anger is refueled when there is physical threat to someone he loves.
Watching this as a teenager, the movie is something of a dashing swashbuckler (to say nothing of the equally dashing hero!) that was exciting. The kind of film that filmmakers just honestly cannot make anymore. Looking back, it’s also probably one of the first “adult” movies I ever saw. As such, this did make an impression on me. When my parents brought home an illustrated children’s version of the book, I was tickled, only to be crestfallen at the changes. IN that, which I know isn’t a complete novel, there’s no romance or real excitement. Something was “off” in a book that inspires one of my favorite Hollywood films. The biggest change in the two is Edmond’s attitude.
So, is he the anti-hero?
The book almost makes him irredeemable. His actions ultimately spurn more heartache. His elaborate schemes ultimately take away so much more than wealth from his torturers. Edmond’s vengeful crusade fed him; it becomes his only reason for living. His endgame is only concerned with the pleasure taking revenge would bring. Turns out, he’s terribly disappointed. Edmond isn’t a saint, but by the time he recognizes the pointless satisfaction getting revenge leaves, there’s no going back.
I do like the significance of the feature film’s end. There’s a case for him being a good man. Someone who recognizes what his mentor wanted him to learn. I like that. It features a repentant Edmond back at the place where he had nothing but revenge. In the novel, he tends to slip off and is kind of a story that says Edmond Dantes is dead – to the world and himself.
Faults or no, film or book, I still must say, Edmond cuts quite a debonair figure in those evening jackets and duster coats.
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This originally appeared in an online e-zine called Charity’s ‘Tude. The publication is no longer publishing. I have edited and updated the text.